Normandy
by Tycko
Summary: The night before D-Day, July 1943. The 294th regiment, known as 'Knights' prepare for the operation that will liberate France. They don't know that they've done this many times before, all defending their country, always the five of them, different times, different lives, all to protect Albion. Part one of what may turn out to be the 'Guardians of the Realm' series. Also on Ao3.


'Twenty-one.'

'Cheat.' It was an empty triumph, despite the mocking mirth that edged its way into the speaker's voice.

'Twenty-one, see?' The cavorting soldier, little more than a lanky teenager, brandished a four, a five, an ace, a three and an eight. 'That's a five card trick, mate.'

'And up your sleeve? That ten got anything to do with it, or are you planning to take it into the fray with you?'

'Damn. Alright Leon, ya got me.' He pulled the incriminating ten of hearts out from his sleeve, placing it on the table with a flourish. 'Worth a shot, though?' The younger man smirked, a cocky, arrogant grin, one eye squinted shut, head lolled back to one side in grudging defeat. 'I guess house rules apply?'

'Yup. Chips are distributed out. Extras for Percy, because you're mean to him.'

'Huh?' Percy appeared in the doorway in response to his name, tags in hand.

'Shut up, Persephone.'

'I told you, it's Percy- no more no less.'

'_Sure_.' The word was drawn out, exaggerated, childish and taunting in the same way that schoolboys tease each other in the playground. 'Course it is. So what's it _actually_. Perseus? Percival? Purgatory? Percha-'

Gwaine's condescending rambling was cut off by a pillow being thrown across the room, colliding with him squarely in the face and effectively muting him with a mouthful of floury duckdown and cotton. 'Shut it, pipsqueak' came the retort from his adversary.

'I'll hang you from the drainpipe by your suspenders again. Can and will, kiddo.' The warring duo held each other's stares for a moment, before relapsing back into the lopsided smiles edgily tinted with the underlying nervousness that couldn't help but seep into the charged atmosphere.

'Hate to break up the romantic moment, but you, Gwaine, owe them poker chips.'

Gwaine's heartily pompous salute and barking call of 'Aye there, Captain,' and the scattering of his jacket-button poker chips was unanimously heard throughout the crushing space of the soldier's quarters. There was a slight murmur of amusement from the assembled men, though it couldn't help but sound strained, forced, in the quiet lamplight. The atmosphere was tangible, electric, each man dealing with the tension in a different way; some flipped cards around, betting with buttons, pennies, drawing pins, joking and snickering at crude innuendos while some paced restlessly, footsteps drumming a regular beat. _Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. . _Incessantly on and on, over and over. Some just sat on their bunks, staring into empty space, glazed eyes half-focussed on the middle distance, waiting for the worst. Elyan smoothed out a crumpled photo of his sister, worn down with stress and frequent reassurances, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing over the wrinkled paper like it was a lifeline. Lance shouldered his gun, cleaning it, polishing it, checking the barrel, the rounds, pointing, aiming, firing with an empty, hollow _click_, repeating; over and over as if it were a routine that he desperately needed to remember.

Gwaine, as always, was drinking and playing blackjack.

Leon supposed, if it was his place to suppose, that the youngest member of their crew was more than just carefree and apathetic, but daunted by the task that faced them on the morrow. Of course they were all terrified; hell, even Percy was quietly scared by the burden of the task they were about to undertake, hanging heavy over their heads like a low, colossal slate-grey cloud that made threats of thunder and blackened skies. Their threat was much greater than a bit of a thunderstorm though.

D-Day, they called it.

They were to land that morning in Normandy that morning, before the sun had truly managed to ascend into the sky, onto a beach that would be soon bathed in the scarlet haze of sunlight and blood. He pitied the poor sods that were flying in. Their craft looked like it was made from little more than balsawood and newspaper. At least his band of knights had something a bit sturdier to carry them to their deaths in: steel hunks that called themselves transporters, rusting with saline and gore.

They had been told that it was for the elite. That's why their regiment had been called up, they said. Sword Beach: a place for only the best of the best to take our 'auld ally France' back from the oppressors. And to hell with that, they lied and told them that they were special, more than just another name on the role of honour, to be glorified and placed on a pedestal for all the girls back home to be attracted to like a bloody magnet. He had been serving country here longest, watched as man upon man under his command fell to shells and mortar or bullets or disease or just terrible bad luck, hearing screams, shrill and piercing, so full of fear and uncertainty, not even human in their final moments, so at odds to the generals stuffing their faces in some expensive place miles out of the firing line, white gloved and handlebar moustached, pretending they knew about the horrors of warfare, pretending they cared.

So pumped full of propaganda and patriotism. It was disgusting.

Fatigued from sleepless nights and the near-constant duress of being a leader to his band of men had taken its toll on their captain. He knew he looked a mess; despite the military upbringing, his hair remained unkempt, his eyes bloodshot and reddened, crumpled shirt, dogtags askew, boots caked in grime and mud. He was supposed to be a role model, but the constant stress of war had worn him down considerably, and all he wanted was for this bloody war to be over and to go the hell home. If he lasted that long. Lance constantly told them they couldn't afford to think of it in that way, and Gwaine's near-constant high-spirited pretence (more often than not inebriated) sought to keep morale up, though little could lessen the strained apprehension that hovered around in the room, a disease, pestilencing the cramped atmosphere in the confines of their little spot of home.

To their credit, as he looked around, the men had done a good job in personalising the room. Everyone had carved a name into their beds, with varying degrees of 'is amazing' and 'was here '43' etched into the roughly-hewn beechwood. Photos adorned the walls, nostalgic depictions of family members, pin-up girls in provocative positions, musings of home, even the odd sheepdog here and there. The last vestiges of hopes and dreams, pictures of a future that may never happen, ambitions and loves and hopes and dreams, tragic inevitability echoed throughout the uncomfortably compact space. It was so at odds to the onus that they held over their backs like the rucksacks, already packed, waiting like troops to be shouldered, just itching to be used.

None of them knew what the time was. They'd only be woken in a few hours' time anyway, and that was just the ones that could sleep. It was late, sure, easily into the small hours of the morning, but the majority of them would wait, the bitter tang of anticipation in their mouth like they'd bitten their tongue, restless and sleepless, waiting for whatever ungodly hour in which they'd be pulled from their beds and called to arms, told to grab their stuff and go, military-grade hunting knife strapped to their leg, tommy gun kept hauled over the shoulder, close enough to be held like children. He was tired of the war, tired of fighting, tired of violence and bloodshed and the tarnished khaki that was a constant reminder of the hate crimes keeping him here, bound by loyalty and duty and obligation to the king.

He'd always had an indomitable sense of pride, his place in the bigger picture. He'd promised, much to his mother's chagrin, to serve his time in the army, ever since he was seven years old and playing soldiers in the itching, tick-infested grass that lay beyond his house like an open battlefield. Didn't know why. 'Loyalty,' some had claimed, either that or 'do your father proud.'

Not that they knew; his father had been a deserter, shot by his own men as punishment for cowardice, in the war that preceded this one. He could see why people ran away. Better escape, fall back on cowardice, pretend the horrors of fighting didn't exist, hadn't happened to them. Some of the youngest men in his regiment seemed like they would snap, run for cover at any moment, shellshocked and hollow eyed, unable to comprehend the daunting nature of the suicidal task that lay in front of them like a track cut short.

There they were. His main men. Lance, Elyan, Percy, Gwaine and him. The Five Musketeers. The closest-knit unit in the reg. His most trusted, the comrades who had shared the war with him. Drafted in from wherever; the States, the West Indies, even the godforbidden land of rain and sheep that was _Wales_, for crying out loud. Not that he had anything against Gwaine, he just had an odd name, that was all. And he was a bit of a ladies' man.

And drank too much.

He and Elyan were chatting amicably, the Welshman having coaxed him out of his worry, for the time being, at least. Talking of home and barefooted blisters and proper cups of tea. As Leon watched, propped up in one corner, Lance shrugged his way off his bunk and came over to join the duo, arguing over who had the better claim to Elyan's kid sister.

Gwen, though, had a type, and that type wasn't slick-talking blokes in uniform. She'd joined the WRENs, sending her brother a photo of her with one of the beloved Tiger Moth planes, which Lance had frantically nicked and hidden under his pillow, much to their amusement.

He brushed aside the out-of-place sense of déjà vu, and pulled up a chair. Reeling in the edginess, the unease that stirred in the pit of his stomach like a dragon rising from its slumber, he grabbed a glass before he could chastise himself for what he was doing, and poured himself a drink. For courage. Lord knows, he was going to need it.

They all knew their roles. Attack in swarms like insects, avoiding nigh-as-dammit impenetrable gun turrets, mortars, the harsh, constant deafening of machine-gun fire, lie glazed-eyed and spread-eagled over the Normandy beaches below when they were done with it. Fight for the country, die for the country.

Not that they knew it, but in the way that they always had, generations and generations ago, over and over, always guarding the realm, always the stoic watchmen over their Albion. A country indebted to those reincarnated time and time again, sentries, waiting for their time to come, their final battle, their one last struggle, when their nation was most endangered and they would ascend to meet the threat, for liberty or death.

It was fated to be.

~.*.~

His name was Emrys. He had another name, once.

A name he had stopped using a long time ago.

He had been travelling the country for generations, too old to know, too old to care.

The same faces, over and over again. Knights, once. Men of honour. Men willing to fight for that.

For protecting the country. Their Albion.

Key moments in their history came and went.

Ruthless Danes being held off from Cornish bogs.

Hastings. Ten-Sixty-Six. All dead. Lacking a leader when they needed it most.

Opposing sides of Bosworth Field.

The Armada, serving with swords and pistols on sea.

The battle of Newbury; England torn apart by war and dissent and a king no longer loved by his people.

The HMS Victory in her flagship splendour.

Waterloo. The leader of the hour named Arthur. Not him though. Never him.

Flanders.

Normandy.

The Falklands, next.

Then the fateful one that was.

Designation: Battlefield Four.

But they weren't to know about that.

Not yet.

Only then, after the country lies in blackened ruins and a people crippled from defeat will a hero ascend from the ashes of defeat to save them.

But not today.

He turned away from the destruction; craters littering the land, limp ragdoll bodies caught up in barbed wire, the men he once fought alongside unseeing in the silt and salt of Sword Beach, June 1943. He could see this place in eighty years' time, serene and soft, children lying in the bottom of the twenty-foot deep pits carved out by shells and ravaged by war; couples looking out to sea, ruefully minding each other and the baited what-ifs that would never come; the land being green and turfed and buzzing with life, oblivious to the lives lost here, a single white cross the hauntingly minimal memorial to the men left bulletholed on the shoreline.

They were going to die here anyway.

No leader. No messiah. To saviour to power them forwards and fight for the saviour of their once-proud nation. No. Not now.

For His time was yet to come.

~.*.~

**A/N:**

**So I've been thinking about posting these type-fics for a while now; basically, everyone from Camelot & co will be reincarnated when England needs them, much like the legend...**  
**However, Arthur isn't. Not yet.**

**It's only when England really needs him that he'll make an appearance. (That's the year 2062, Battlefield Four.)**  
**So it'll be a series of one shots in and around the times that they're needed, at specifically important points in British history, and then there'll be a full-length fic for the future where Arthur returns.**

**I don't know how it's going to pan out yet, but I like the idea.**

**Oh, and this is set before the D-Day landings in 1943. It's not going to be 100% historically accurate, but it shouldn't be too bad. And it's kinda depressing, in a tragic-inevitability sort of way.**

**That's pretty much it.**  
**Erm... enjoy! (Or not.)**


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